


was it ever worth it

by Sparroet



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Crime Scenes, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparroet/pseuds/Sparroet
Summary: An au where Henry did kill Nora - Barry doesn't find out why until now. For the upteenth time, he's glad that Joe will always be his real dad.





	was it ever worth it

**Author's Note:**

> this is personal me coping with stuff im sorry

Barry isn’t aware of how it happens, he just knows he’s alone. He always was, from the start, wasn’t he? His father was lying the whole time, and dragged Barry in on this convoluted, twisted lie about men in lightning and magical transportations for ten long years. Only now, at twenty one, did Henry Allen bother to mention that their marriage was failing, and he had never wanted to lose Barry - and he feared in a court battle against Nora he would lose the only family member he cared for. Because he’d never actually cared for Nora. That left Barry where he was, intrepid CSI on the scene of the latest Iron Heights riot (and subsequent breakout, because Iron Heights was nothing if not a revolving door), with security footage from 1:23 AM the previous night very clearly showing a party lead by Doc Allen tangle with the guards, and Henry Allen drove a shiv through the man’s rib cage without blinking once. Singh, for once, was sympathetic.

“Barry,” He said gently, resting a palm on Barry’s shoulder in a mockery of a fatherly touch, “Why don’t you sit this one out?” 

So Barry Joseph West went back to his tiny, rundown apartment on the bad side of town to the noise of cats screeching and his upstairs neighbors having yet another domestic spat and laid on the shoddy mattress he called a bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling emptily. He didn’t have any tears left to shed, just an impending sense of dread. Gosh, he’d really fucked up his whole life, hadn’t he? He’d been empty since the day three years ago that his father finally confessed - and he hadn’t seen the man since. He’d heard, he’d gotten the letters, and he’d tossed all of them out without cracking the envelope. There was some weak excuse about plea bargains and possibility of parole - clearly a lie, in retrospect. It was six years too late to legally adopt himself to the Wests, but not to rid himself of the last thing tying him to the man. Joe cried a bit when he’d asked to take Joseph as his middle name. After fourteen years, at least one thing felt right. 

So if now Barry was staring at a ceiling feeling his vision tunnel and his throat go dry - it wasn’t because he cared that Henry Allen was now most certainly a murderer, or that he could be dead; it was because he was afraid the man would find him. It was with shaking resolve he picked up his cell and called the West house.

“Hey, Barry, Joe’s not around. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s at the crime scene you’re supposed to be at.”

Barry tried to steady himself, breathing heavily through his nose. 

“Hey, Barry? You okay?”

“No,” he whispered, and he finally felt the first tear slide down his cheek, “It's...it's him, Iris. He got out. I don’t know-I can’t-” -and now he was shaking and couldn’t form the words and he forgot how to breathe.

“Barry, it’s okay, just breathe, okay? Tell me what you need me to do and I’ll be there. You know I’ll always be here for you.”

“Just-just come here. I need-I can’t-Iris,” he was losing his focus, too caught up on the hammering of his chest, “Please-”

“It’s okay, I’ll be there in ten, I promise. Just lie down, okay? I’m grabbing my keys, and then I’m gonna drive over, and you’re gonna get a glass of water, and empty your stomach and then take a lorazepam - the whole pill, kay? Can you do that for me, Bear?”

Barry nods briskly, then remembers she can’t hear that, “Yeah.”

“Want me to stay on the line?”

He can’t breathe right now and it hurts too much to push words out, but he makes a noncommittal noise and Iris seems to get it.

“It’s okay,” she says, and he’s grateful she never once takes a babying tone, “You’re allowed to be upset over this. You need to let it out. It’s healthy. Dad’ll be really happy to have you home for a bit. He’s been trying out a bunch of Grandma Esther's old recipes, and I swear - it’s like he waited til you got out of the house to learn to cook.” 

“Mhm,” Barry pushes through his sobs, his breathing now feels like a fish out of water, desperately gulping for anything he can get.

“I’m on the corner of Sterling and Main, Barry,” Iris’ voice is grounding, “I’ll be there soon.”

Barry tries to lean back, focusing only on his breathing, but it's difficult when he can feel his blood pumping in every vein of his body, his throat feels like it is weighted down with rocks. He doesn’t know how long it takes before Iris is there, unlocking his door and bringing a glass of cool water to his lips. He accepts his pill without fuss, and feels his heart rate slow down. God, he’s tired. He’s so very, very tired. 

Work the next day begins rough, it's hard when you’ve been crying all night and took enough sedatives to sleep into next year. Barry manages. He’s got no field work lined up for the day, at least he didn’t, until Joe barged into his office before noon.

“We’ve got a scene they need you on,” Joe grimaces, “Homicide at Central City U.”

“On  _ campus _ ?” Barry balks.

Joe wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, real nasty, Professor was shot in his own office. Cleaning staff found him this morning.”

“And we’re sure it's a homicide, not a suicide?”

Joe leans over to ruffle Barry’s hair, “That’s what they need you for, buddy.”

Professor Eobard Thawne has given Barry an inordinate amount of attention throughout his life, which he waves away as being a good friend of Nora’s. Barry has seen framed photographs of a younger, smiling Nora, and even one with a younger Thawne, holding up a joyous baby Barry, no trace of Henry Allen to be seen. This one resides front and center on the desk in Thawne’s office, lovingly placed on the right side of his computer monitor, so that he may see it at all times. It’s damning, to say the least, and by the time Barry is old enough to officially attend CCU, he’s worked out why Thawne has always been so intent on keeping him close. 

It’s in the wistful way he recounts Nora, the blatant disregard for any possibility of Henry’s innocence, and the dusting of freckles both he and Barry share. He never says it out loud, and so Barry doesn’t either.

Thawne’s always given him easy work, research at the top of his field, and sent birthday and holiday cards with more cash than Barry knew what to do with. Thawne was there in court every time, and there for every holiday, the only one who seemed to remember that Nora was Jewish and celebrated Passover and Yom Kippur. Not that Joe and Iris didn’t try their best, but that Thawne had this creepy, overarching knowledge of every tradition and going on in the Allen household. He’d mentioned a few times, in passing, that he’d applied to adopt Barry, but was denied because he was a suspect, because the court alleged he was having an affair with Nora. For years. Enough time that Barry - but he couldn’t, at the time, because Henry raised him, because he loved his dad, and believed with all his heart his father would never kill his mom. Eobard Thawne was appropriately delighted when Henry finally confessed citing Thawne himself as the reason he stabbed his wife in a fit of rage. 

Eobard Thawne, was in short, creepy. And dead. Cause: four rounds, one in the back of the head, two in the neck, and one on the left shoulder. No possibility of self infliction, estimated time of death: 1900 hours. Crime scene is Thawne’s personal office on CCU campus grounds, discovered at 0530 hours by cleaning staff. No clear indication as to motive or suspects. Barry is tasked with sweeping the cabinets and desk for relevant evidence. It did not take a masters in forensics to understand the pen stabbed through a printed partial DNA test, a paternity test one Barry Allen does not remember taking. Underneath the gaudy printed “CONGRATULATIONS, DR. THAWNE” is chickenstratch in red ink that a professor might use to grade papers,  _ HE WAS MY BOY FIRST.  _

Barry promptly empties the contents of his stomach in the trash bin under Thawne’s desk, which he blearily reminds Officer Forrest, it evidence, evidence he has just tarnished.

Forrest chuckles, albeit weakly, at this, “That should be the least of your worries, man. You should go home. Patty and I can process the scene ourselves. You gonna be okay?”

“Honestly,” Barry says, relinquishing his death grip on the cheap plastic trash bin, “I half expect to find some adoption papers that prove I’ve got some fourth parent somewhere who’s been brutally murdered.”

He goes home, and anyway, it’s not like they needed him, because they already know both the suspect and the motive. Most of the energy now needs to be on a manhunt, something Barry is both not qualified for, and not ready to think about. 

Until he is forced to; lo and behold, Barry opens the door to the West family home and hears a telltale click of a glock reloading behind him.

“Relax, Barry,” Henry says, fingering the trigger of the weapon which most definitely killed Professor Thawne, “We’re safe now. Thawne got what he deserved.”

It does nothing to assuage the panic Barry feels rising in him, “Please, Dad, Dad he-I,” he doesn’t know how to broach the topic, to ask what he means to Henry now that they’ve both seen that Barry isn’t his own flesh and blood, “Please. Please don’t do this.”

Henry’s brow furrows, and for a moment, he looks genuinely concerned, and leans down to rest his elbows on his knees, “Barry, look at me. There you go. It doesn’t matter to me that you’re Thawne’s boy, he’s taken care of now. And more importantly, you’re the only piece of Nora I have left.”

Barry’s breath catches, and he’s trying his best to be relieved, he really is, but he can’t stop thinking, wondering, does Henry even want him? Is the only thing keeping him alive his mom’s hair and eyes? He can feel the beginnings of another panic attack, the bile rising quickly in his throat, and he can’t even respond back. 

“I never got to be there for you, growing up,” Henry continues, ignoring the way Barry’s breathing has stuttered, “He was. It’s time we make up for all that lost time, son. I’ve got a cabin in the Catskills, we’ll go up there and I’ll take you fishing, and teach you to cook a bass just the way your mom likes it. Sound good, slugger?”

Then Henry is touching him, holding his arm and forcing him to stand, and Barry staggers, slouching forward to plant his face in the trash, head banging the toilet as he empties his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “I’m sorry Dad,” he cries, and he is crying now. Henry rubs his back in a soothing motion, one that reminds him of better days in the old house when he’d had a nightmare, and he used to crawl into his parents’ bed.

“It’s okay, son,” Henry says, “We’ll be out of here soon, and we’ll put this all behind us for good.”

He says it like it's possible, like Barry isn’t shaking and functioning on autopilot when he’s lead to the passenger side of a likely stolen sedan, settled in and buckled up, like he’s still ten years old (and maybe, in Henry’s mind, he still is, and they’re going on some big father-son fishing trip in western New York. At least Barry hopes that’s the plan, because he won’t make it much farther if Henry keeps the gun out). Henry takes his sweet old time fishing out a blanket and water bottle from the trunk. He’s gentle, using practiced motions that should feel loving to tuck the blanket around Barry and offer him small sips of water.

Henry puts the glock in the cupholder between them, and shifts the car in drive, “Don’t you worry, Barry, we’ll be there soon enough. Maybe we stop for a day or two in Chicago. Your mom had always wanted to visit, you know.”

The whole day has been exhausting for him, and at this point Barry felt rather numb to it all. He rather liked the thought this was just a camping trip a twelve-year old version of himself was denied, “Dad, I’m tired,” he mumbles, letting his body slump against the seat back.

Henry chuckles, almost fondly, “It's okay, Bear. Take a nap, there’s no pressure. We’re making great time already.”

“Ok,” Barry half whispers, “love you,” he says, an afterthought, but he’s been thinking it now for a while. As scared as he is now, he’s more scared of losing the last remnants of his tattered family. He tucks his head under the blanket, and immediately puts location on his phone online, pinging it to Joe. He doesn’t want to be pulled over by random cops who will shoot to kill; it has to be Joe.

“Stay in the car, Barry,” Henry begs, “Stay safe and I’ll take care of them.”

“You get your damn hands off my boy, Allen!” Oh thank god, it was Joe, now if Barry could only - his thoughts were cut off by Henry yanking his bicep, hard. His other hand picks the glock up out of the cupholder. 

“He’s my son, Joseph, not yours! And he never will be!” He’s pulling them both out of car, his gun held up on high so Joe can see it first. 

Barry makes eye contact with Joe and Eddie, crouching behind their patrol car door on the other side of the road, weapons trained on Henry. He can’t even hear what they are saying, his ears are ringing and he swears he sees Henry’s lips move in response but the world is slowing down now, and Henry is aiming to kill, and it is all Barry can do to scream, “It's okay, Joe,” and hope his meaning is understood. 

The world explodes back into real time with a bang, and Barry feels Henry’s fingers go limp on his forearm. He looks away, training his eyes firmly on the dirt by the side of the road. It doesn’t help. Nothing does. Barry falls to his knees, and his fingers reach uselessly for the cold hand of his once-father. 

He is alone, once again. Orphaned.

The day is a blur. He vaguely recalls Joe; hugging him and sobbing in pure relief; then the inside of the CCPD’s interrogation room, where he gave a statement in some kind of trance. Then they’re taking his dad to the morgue - no need for an autopsy now - and Barry has to take home a packet for organizing a funeral. For once, Barry knows what to do with this, it, like every feeling he has bottled up for the past week, goes right in the trash.


End file.
